Jim Butcher: Turn Coat

I was in the infirmary for a week. I got visits from McCoy, Ramirez, and Molly. Mouse stayed at my bedside, and no one tried to move him. Listens-to-Wind was a regular presence, since he was pretty much my doctor. Several of the young Wardens I had helped train stopped by to have a word, though all of them were looking nervous.

Anastasia never visited, though Listens-to-Wind said she had come by and asked after me when I was asleep.

The Gatekeeper came to see me in the middle of the night. When I woke up, he had already created a kind of sonic shield around us that made sure we were speaking in privacy. It made our voices sound like our heads were covered with large tin pails.

“How are you feeling?” he asked quietly.

I gestured at my face, which was no longer bandaged. As Listens-to-Wind had promised, my eye was fine. I had two beautiful scars, though, one running down through my right eyebrow, skipping my eye, and continuing for an inch or so on my cheekbone, and another one that went squarely through the middle of my lower lip and on a slight angle down over my chin. “Like Herr Harrison von Ford,” I said. “Dueling scars and beauty marks. The girls will be lining up now.”

The quip didn’t make him smile. He looked down at his hands, his expression serious. “I’ve been working with the Wardens and administrative staff whose minds Peabody invaded.”

“I heard.”

“It appears,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “that the psychic disruption to Anastasia Luccio was particularly severe. I was wondering if you might have any theories that might explain it.”

I stared across the darkened room quietly for a moment, then asked, “Did the Merlin send you?”

“I am the only one who knows,” he said seriously. “Or who will know.”

I thought about it for a moment before I said, “Would my theory make any difference in how she gets treated?”

“Potentially. If it seems sound, it might give me the insight I need to heal her more quickly and safely.”

“Give me your word,” I said. I wasn’t asking.

“You have it.”

“Before he died,” I said, “Morgan told me that when he woke up in LaFortier’s room, Luccio was holding the murder weapon.” I described the rest of what Morgan had told me of that night.

The Gatekeeper stared across the bed at the far wall, his face impassive. “He was trying to protect her.”

“I guess he figured the Council might do some wacky thing like sentencing an innocent person to death.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, and then touched the fingertips of his right hand to his heart, his mouth, and his forehead. “It explains some things.”

“Like what?”

He held up his hand. “In a moment. I told you that the damage to Anastasia was quite extensive. Not because she had been persuaded to do violence—that much came easily to her. I believe her emotional attitudes had been forcibly altered.”

“Emotional attitudes,” I said quietly. “You mean . . . her and me?”

“Yes.”

“Because she always believed in keeping her distance,” I said quietly. “Until recently.”

“Yes,” he said.

“She . . . never cared about me.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “There had to have been some kind of foundation upon which to build. It’s entirely possible that she genuinely felt fond of you, and that something might have grown from it. But it was forced into place instead.”

“Who would do that?” I shook my head. “No, that’s obvious.

Why would he do that?”

“To keep tabs on you, perhaps,” the Gatekeeper replied. “Perhaps to have an asset in position to remove you, if it became necessary. You were, after all, virtually the only younger Warden who never gave Peabody an opportunity to exploit you, since you never came to headquarters. You’re also probably the most talented and powerful of your generation. The other young Wardens like to associate with you, generally, so there was every chance you might notice something amiss. Taken as a whole, you were a threat to him.”

I felt a little sick. “That’s why she showed up in Chicago when she should have been back at headquarters helping with the manhunt.”

“Almost certainly,” he said. “To give Peabody forewarning if you should get closer to his trail, and to locate Morgan so that Peabody could make him disappear. Morgan dead at the hands of White Council justice is one thing. Had Peabody succeeded, killed Morgan, and gotten rid of the body, then as far as we knew the traitor would be at large in the world, and uncatchable. It would have been a continuous stone around our necks.”

“And a perfect cover for Peabody,” I said. “He could off whoever he wanted, and given the slightest excuse, everyone would assume that it had been Morgan.”

“Not only Peabody,” the Gatekeeper said. “Any of our enemies might have taken advantage of it the same way.”

“And it also explains why he came to Chicago after I dropped that challenge on the Council. He probably thought that the fake informant was Anastasia. He had to go there to find out if his brainlock was holding.” I shook my head. “I mean, he never needed to come through that Way since he already knew one out to Demonreach. Christ, I got lucky.”

“Also true,” the Gatekeeper said. “Though I would suggest that your forethought allowed you to make your own luck.” He shook his head. “If Morgan had not acted so quickly, things might have been even worse. Luccio would have stood accused as well, and neither of them would have had any idea what had happened. Accusing Morgan was bad enough—the Wardens would not have stood for both the Captain and her second to be placed under arrest. It might have begun a civil war all on its own.”

“Morgan . . . he loved Luccio,” I said.

The Gatekeeper nodded. “He wore his heart on his sleeve for quite a while when he was younger. But she never let anyone close. In retrospect, it was a personality shift that should have been noted, though she kept her relationship with you discreet.”

I snorted quietly. “Easy to expect tampering when someone turns into a foaming maniac,” I said. “When someone changes by becoming happy, it’s sort of hard not to be happy for them.”

He smiled, a brief flash of warmth. “Very true.”

“So she’s . . . I mean, when you help her start fixing the damage . . .”

“It’s already begun. Her subconscious has been struggling against the bindings placed in her mind for some time. Even if she’d felt something before, the fact that it was forced upon her will cause a backlash.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Things got sort of tense between us, I guess, after this whole situation got going. I mean, I sort of figured we’d already broken up, but . . .”

But this wasn’t a case of having loved and lost. She had never loved me. Madeline’s kiss, when she’d buried me in an avalanche of bliss while she took a bite from my life force, had proved that. Anastasia hadn’t ever been in love. Maybe she hadn’t ever really liked me. Or maybe she had. Or maybe it was all of the above.

Whatever it had been, it was over now, before it could grow into anything else, and neither of us had been given much of a choice in the matter.

I hadn’t expected it to hurt quite as much as it did.

Rashid put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you deserved to know.”

“Yeah,” I said, my voice rough. “Thank you. I guess.” I found myself letting out a bitter little laugh.

The Gatekeeper tilted his head.

“I’ve been trying to work out why no one used magic on anyone at LaFortier’s murder.”

“What is your conclusion?”

“You can’t do anything with magic that you don’t really, truly believe in,” I said. “Some part of Luccio had to recognize that killing LaFortier was wrong. So she used a knife. Morgan could no more have unleashed magic upon a lawfully serving Senior Council member or onto his commanding officer than he could have apologized for how he’s treated me. And LaFortier never saw it coming from Anastasia. He probably died confused, never had a chance to use a spell.” I looked up at the Gatekeeper. “It wasn’t some big arcane, mysterious reason. It was because everyone was human.”